Sergeant Angel
by XxMildredxX
Summary: Sherlock is called to a crime scene to assess a body, but it appears the new Sergeant, Nicholas Angel is already there, and doing a pretty good job of it! Oneshot. Hot Fuzz crossover.


**Hello! 1,100 words of utter rubbish, I warn you.**

**I just thought, what would Sherlock's reaction be to meeting Nicholas Angel?**

**You'll have to forgive any errors, I wrote this in ten minutes. You'll also have to forgive the poor writing quality because I'm drugged up to my eyeballs in paracetamol, codeine and ibuprofen. I'm sick. Probably caught it off Mark Gatiss. That was a joke. Who got it? No one?**

**Feel free to take the idea and make it better- I'd love to read a Sherlock/Hot Fuzz crossover!**

"Oh it's Christmas!" Sherlock yelled gleefully. "Three kidnappings and now a murder! Oh yes!"

John rolled his eyes, failing to mention to his crazy flatmate, that it actually _was _Christmas (or rather, Christmas Eve, but it all counted, right?), and that was why the flat looked like a tinsel monster had vomited over it after having violent sex with a fairy-light enthusiast, courtesy of Mrs Hudson, of course.

"Where?" he asked, grabbing his coat as the excitable detective bounded downstairs, coat a-flapping behind him.

"Hackney!" was the cheerful cry, before he flew out of the front door and hailed a taxi.

They were in a cab, John rubbing his hands together and wishing he had bought those gloves he'd seen the other day in John Lewis. His fingers were about to drop off.

"Door locked from the inside. Window shattered, but the room was in a block of flats twenty feet above the ground!" Sherlock was babbling excitedly. "Oh, this is going to be a good one!"

They arrived some time later in front of a tower block of some dingy apartments. Lestrade's team could be seen by the entrance, huddled together around Sally Donovan, who had a tray of Starbucks in hand.

"Sally!" Sherlock cried out, as John was left to pay the cabbie. "Where is Lestrade?"

She glared at the new additions to the crime scene. "Upstairs. He's with the new Sergeant."

"Oh wonderful. More monkeys making a mess."

And with that he swept inside, as John followed, grumbling to himself about the cold.

They dashed up too many flights of stairs for John to be happy about, and reached the flat in question. It was sparsely decorated with a few worn threads of tinsel, and the living room had a crestfallen tree with minimal baubles on it. A few police officers eyed Sherlock apprehensively, as he strode through to the bedroom.

"Lestrade! Where's the body?" Sherlock asked loudly, catching sight of everyone's favourite DI.

Lestrade turned round, from where he was talking to a man John hadn't seen before at a crime scene. He was of sergeant status, so John assumed he was the new guy Sally had spoken about.

"Through here," Lestrade said wearily, and indicated the next door. Lestrade, Sherlock, John, and the new Sergeant followed through to the adjoining room.

"Er, this is Sergeant Angel, Sherlock. He's down here for a few weeks," Lestrade introduced them. "Nicholas, this is my...um, consultant, and his colleague John."

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge him, but went straight to the body, and crouched down to inspect it.

John nodded at Angel (_very festive, _he thought with an internal snigger), and went back to looking at Sherlock do his thing.

Angel wasn't put off, however, by Sherlock's brash attitude, but stepped round to inspect the busted window more carefully.

"What have you got for me?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, but Angel got there first.

"Window is broken from the outside. Glass distribution suggests with was broken with a lot of force. There are balconies dotted around the outside wall, so the murderer probably swung down from the balcony above this window and smashed it with his feet. The victim was asleep- she's wearing nightclothes and still has residual sleep in her eyes which means she never left the bedroom between going to sleep last night and being awoken this morning. The killer strangled her, that much is obvious, but she has blood under her fingernails, which indicated she put up a fight. She also has abrasions and wounds on her head, which are explained by the dents in her wardrobe and blood smears on the floor; the killer was significantly more physically strong that she, and pushed her around the room in an effort to subdue her. She choked to death, and he left her at the foot of the bed. Then, he went back to the wardrobe-"

At this point, Angel pulled over a small chair that had been upturned, and stood up on it, in order to see on top of the wardrobe.

"Yep. He took something. Dust patterns show that something big, about the size of a small loaf of bread and rectangular in size, was removed here very recently. There is no dust in where it used to sit, but a thick layer of it everywhere else. The victim wasn't fond of dusting or cleaning, or any sort of disturbance in her house. That's evident anyway due to her mangy Christmas decorations which should have been thrown out in about 1988-"

John, in complete awe and shock, laughed at that bit.

"She was a hoarder. Doesn't like to throw stuff away. Which can be confirmed by-"

Angel jumped off the chair, and opened the wardrobe doors with a flourish.

"-the piles and piles of newspapers that she can't bear to throw away."

Lestrade, John and Sherlock leaned closer to look in the wardrobe. Instead of clothes being hung up, there were thousands of newspapers, all stacked precisely on top of each other.

"That's brilliant!" said John automatically. He looked up to see Sherlock giving him an expression that looked like he had just walked in on John fucking his brother.

"Well, Seargeant," Lestrade said, somewhat smugly, as Sherlock continued to have a face similar to a rejected puppy, "very impressive. Any leads on our murderer, though?"

Sherlock spluttered in indignation, as Angel and Lestrade turned away from him. This was _his _mystery, god dammit!

"Look, Detective Inspector," Angel said, pointing to the chest of drawers in the corner. "What can you see?"

"It has been shifted!" Sherlock all but yelled, elbowing Lestrade out of the way. "It has been shifted recently, dragged about three feet to the right, and then pulled back again. The floorboards have scrape marks on them!"

John snickered at Sherlock's attempts at reinstating himself as resident genius, as Sherlock glared at him.

"Exactly," Angel said, unfazed by Sherlock's strange behaviour. "What could that indicate?"

He looked round, and both he had the forgotten detective said at the same time, "Hidden alcove."

They both stepped up to the chest of drawers, and John and Lestrade retreated several feet, as the short blonde and the tall brunette heaved at the furniture item. It creaked and groaned, and John and Lestrade's jaws dropped as a hole in the wall was revealed.

A large man was rather uncomfortably cramped in it. Upon realising his hiding place was discovered, he pushed himself out of the hole, and tried to make a dash for it. Angel and Sherlock grabbed at him, and all three went crashing to the floor.

John looked at Lestrade, who shrugged, and they turned back to watch the police officer and the detective take down the kidnapper-now-murderer, whilst the former shouted the man's rights over the racket he was making.

Sherlock jumped up once the man was handcuffed, and brushed himself down, glancing at John.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Lestrade said patronisingly. "I'll call you again when I need some extra muscle in a case."

John burst into laughter which Lestrade joined in with, as Sherlock rather grumpily exited the room, Sergeant Angel escorting the murderer just behind.

Later, as Sherlock and John were dropped off back outside their flat, John still laughing at Sherlock's expression, the detective muttered irritably, "I saw all of that before he did. He just said it first."

"Sure you did," John said patronisingly, as he opened the front door.

Sherlock made a hmmfing sound.

"Maybe the MET aren't all so bad, then?" John asked teasingly.

Sherlock gave him a steely glare, before jumping the stairs three at a time, and flopping onto his sofa to sulk.


End file.
